


Cover Girl

by Arsenic, arsenicarcher (Arsenic)



Series: 14 Valentines [45]
Category: Bandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-21
Updated: 2009-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-25 12:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19745662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/arsenicarcher
Summary: Written for 14v 2009.  Theme: body issues.





	Cover Girl

**Author's Note:**

> _Much, much thanks to and for the betas/encouragement._

At their first gig, Greta wore jeans a size too big, and a t-shirt from her dad's closet. Bob teased her, "Sexy," but whatever, it was _Bob_. Greta might have been a pudgeball, but Bob looked like he'd taken lessons from "Revenge of the Nerds" in how to approach women--or humans, for that matter.

It was different, though, when after the third show they'd done he looked at her, perplexed and asked, "Are you just, like, opposed to the whole sexualization of women in bands?"

Greta was more than smart enough for her age, but, "Huh?"

"Like, you're making some statement, or something?"

The thing was, Greta usually _understood_ Bob. It was one of the reasons they got along so well. "I don't have any idea what you're talking about."

"Just, I mean, you're kinda the only girl, and not that you aren't in a band of studs, or anything," Bob swiped his hair out of his eyes and it stuck straight up with sweat. "But, uh, you're pretty much what we have going for ourselves in terms of looks."

Greta looked at him for a long time, because she'd known Bob for years, and he wasn't generally a mean person. Finally she asked, "Are you...serious?"

Bob frowned. "Well. Yeah?"

"Bob. You found a fat girl to play in your band."

Bob started to laugh, but stopped as soon as it became apparent she wasn't joining in. "Wait. You're... You _mean_ that?"

Greta didn't answer, just motioned to her body. Bob, though, shook his head. "That's completely stupid."

"Oh, well, thanks," Greta said. Not that she didn't love them or anything, but boys sucked.

"No, it is. Totally stupid. You're beautiful."

"And you're desperate," she said, feeling mean, but unable to stop herself.

Bob though, just nodded. "Completely. But that doesn't make me wrong about this."

Greta opened her mouth to argue. She realized that a) Bob almost never gave in regarding his opinions about other people and b) she didn't really _want_ to change his mind. In the end she just said, "Fine. Whatever."

***

The part of her that couldn't help being curious paired a short-sleeved blouse with her oversized jeans at the next gig. It wasn't revealing or anything, but it settled along her figure and there was a bit of lace at the v-neck that was mildly suggestive.

Nobody called out their love, but nobody yelled about her being fat, either. Darren said, "You look pretty," off-the-cuff, smiling the same smile he always had for her. Darren didn't much notice girls, not even Greta, but that didn't mean he didn't know pretty when he saw it.

Chris hung from her neck and confirmed, "Way pretty."

Bob, wisely, kept his mouth shut. It gave Greta space to think.

***

On the day they were supposed to meet with Decaydance representatives, Greta threw caution to the wind and put on a dress. It was a nice dress, she'd bought it for her graduation. It was navy blue and simple, but the sleeves were just the barest ruffles over her shoulders and the top half clung a bit, the skirt lose to her knees. It swished when she walked. She liked the way it felt on her skin.

Greta wasn't stupid. She'd seen pictures of Panic, of The Academy Is..., she knew what the label was looking for. She was pretty sure she wasn't it, even if maybe Darren was. Chris, possibly. Bob and her, not so much. But she was going to give it a try.

***

When the label had made the appointment for them to meet with some reps, Greta wasn't exactly expecting one of those reps to be, say, Pete Wentz. He just smiled, though, and shook their hands and said, "Hey, I like that dress. You're never in a dress in the pictures."

"Playing the piano can get inappropriate pretty fast in one," she said, and _what?_

Pete laughed. "Yeah, well. I kinda like inappropriate."

It should have felt creepy and weird and wrong, but Pete's voice was just casual enough that mostly it felt...flattering.

***

The first time someone called out, "Have sex with me, Greta! On the piano!" Greta missed three notes. She made up for it, but it was pretty obvious Bob had noticed.

If he had been any kind of a gentleman, he would have just left it alone. He was just Bob, though, so he asked, "Should I get Clorox wipes?"

Greta wrinkled her nose, which kind of threw her plan of being aloof out the window. "Ew."

Bob grinned. "Told you you were going to be our sex symbol. Told you told you told you."

"What are you, twelve?"

"Only up here," Bob said, pointing to his head. Greta couldn't help laughing.

***

She was pretty sure Bob got himself three online identities just to say insulting things back to people who felt the need to say that Greta, "Might want to look in the mirror before she puts on clothes in the morning," or, "Should consider cutting back on all that oh-so-healthy tour food," or, "She'll grow out of it. It's just baby fat." It could have been Chris, but the insults weren't quite subtle enough. Darren was wise enough not to Google himself or any of them, so that ruled him out. Greta wished she had Darren's zen about other people.

It wasn't like there weren't plenty of posts with pictures and pictures and more pictures of her, scattered with commentary like, "hello, may I lick you?" but somehow, the one person who compared her to Mama Cass always felt louder than the rest.

Greta wasn't delusional, she knew she didn't look a thing like Cass Elliot, but the comments made every extra inch, extra millimeter on her hips, near her stomach, feel ten times as large. When she was having really bad days, she'd revert to clothes that she could drown in, comfortably hidden. Chris would cling to her, chin on her shoulder, arm wrapping wholly around her in a silent point. Bob would just send her bunches of links to comments about his bad skin, or too-bright hair. Darren would play with her hair. Greta was forever falling asleep when he did that, waking up in a better mood.

***

Sometimes, though, when she read those things, what she heard was the voices of young boys, young girls, who stood by her in Meet & Greets and said, breathlessly, "You're beautiful."

Sometimes she heard Bob's fond--bad--wolf whistle when she would show off a new skirt.

Sometimes she heard her own voice, soft and secret and personal, when she was having a good hair day or makeup day, or just a good day, period, thinking, "Well, hello there, Greta."

It was a quiet voice, and so easily could be overidden, but Greta had always heard the softer notes, the keys that everyone else skipped over when playing by ear. The trick was to listen, listen and she could always hear the hidden details--secret and important and worth playing through.


End file.
